


trick or treat

by clarketomylexa



Series: it rained in seattle [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Halloween Shenanigans, clarke just wants to get some
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 11:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21355438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarketomylexa/pseuds/clarketomylexa
Summary: Clarke usually likes to keep an orderly household.She thinks Lexa has rubbed off on her in that way, which is good because they’ve been together for six years now, they have three kids, and out of any habit she could have picked up, she’s glad it’s the one that makes their household a little tidier come back-to-school season.Halloween tends to get away from her though.
Relationships: Anya/Raven Reyes, Clarke Griffin/Lexa, Octavia Blake/Lincoln
Series: it rained in seattle [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1512704
Comments: 3
Kudos: 131





	trick or treat

**Author's Note:**

> set six years after [it rained in seattle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13780494/chapters/31676601) and two years after the unnamed it rained in seattle sequel that i've started writing, does contain spoilers for chapters of it rained in seattle i haven't written yet i guess but clarke and lexa are obviously end game anyway - so are raven and anya and octavia and lincoln in any story i write - so it shouldn't matter too much

Clarke usually likes to keep an orderly household. 

She thinks Lexa has rubbed off on her in that way, which is good because they’ve been together for six years now and out of any habit she could have picked up, she’s glad it’s the one that makes their household a little tidier come back-to-school season. 

Halloween tends to get away from her though. 

It feels like they’ve just gotten back into a routine after the craziness of summer vacation — the juggling shifts to eke out three uninterrupted weeks with the girls and drowning in Hobby Lobby craft projects to keep morale high through August — and here they are now, already fighting with witches hats pink tulle. 

She’s still finding pumpkin stains on the table runner in the dining room despite putting newspaper down when they carved and they’ve pulled three all-nighters this week alone trying to finish costumes that were decided upon at the very last minute. 

Next year, Clarke is going to introduce an ‘all costume requests have to be submitted by May’ policy, if only to salvage her own sanity. 

She picks a tuft of beige fluff up off the carpet, flicking it into the wicker waste-basket. At least it’s already the night of; tomorrow the pumpkin carving and costume stress that has been hanging over her for the past month will be over. 

(She wonders if she can get out of hosting Thanksgiving this year). 

Crossing the room, she leans against the ensuite door, pursing her lips against the smell of hairspray and hot hair. Lexa doesn’t see her immediately — if she had, Clarke is sure she costume would have rendered more of a reaction — but she’s happy to escape the craziness of downstairs for a moment to watch her fiancée wrap a lock of blond hair around the barrel of the curling iron. 

“Remember to listen to Katie’s Mom tonight, OK?” 

“OK,” the nine-year-old poised on the vanity nods — a tiny dip of her head so as not to jostle the way her ringlets have been arranged in their ponytail — but doesn’t take her eyes off the iPad sitting in the nest of red fabric in her lap. 

(The sight reminds Clarke to change the password again. She thinks having it as her birthday — the same as the alarm code and the HBO PIN — is making it too easy for little hands to sneak extra screen time when they aren’t looking). 

A moment passes and Lexa allows the coil of hair to slide off the barrel of the iron, spritzing it with hairspray before arranging it next to the rest. She picks up the red ribbon sitting on the vanity and tucks it nimbly through the elastic keeping Andy’s ponytail in place and Clarke really shouldn’t be surprised by the ease in which she does it — six years worth of recital hairstyling has meant that there is nothing Lexa can’t do with her hands. 

“We should rename it _Salon de Lexa_ up here,” she grins when Lexa looks up, gesturing to the curling iron, bobby-pins and elastics littered across the vanity. Usually, it’s cleaner than it is now — even with three girls’ hair to do in the mornings — but usually, Lexa isn't curling ringlets into Sandy Olsen’s hair. 

Lexa’s eyes widen slightly, fingers tight around the bow in Andy’s hair as they drop to Clarke’s bare midriff and the red and navy polyester of her costume before she composes herself and lifts Andy off the vanity. 

“Only if I’m being tipped,” she wagers, grinning at Andy who looks at herself in the mirror, twisting this way and that to see the way her hair looks — perfect of course, thanks to Lexa’s careful styling. 

The red, felt ‘R’ for Rydell High sits brightly against the white of her jersey, her red peter pan collar folded over the top true to the movie they spent an hour and a half scrubbing through for reference when Andy told them she wanted to be Sandy for Halloween this year — pre-makeover Sandy for course, Katie would be the one wearing the black cat-suit and Clarke has to admit she’s glad her child won’t be the one wandering around the neighbourhood in skin-tight pants tonight — and Clarke may be biased but she’s pretty sure Andy is the sweetest Sandy Olsen she’s ever seen. 

“Go downstairs and get Tía to write Mom’s phone number on your arm, Dee,” instructs once Andy looks satisfied. 

“Mom!” Andy squeaks in protest — it totally isn’t cool to have your Mom write her phone number on your arm when you’re nine-years-old — but Clarke stands firm. They’ve talked about this. This year is the first they’ve deemed her old enough to go trick or treating by herself — with adult supervision of course — but their decision came with stipulations. 

“It’s that or you can go trick or treating with Tía and Aunty O."

Andy frowns at that; the gears in her head whirring. She’s taller than she was six years ago, her hair is longer and her face is thinner — her baby fat lost to gymnastics and elementary school beep tests — and she only has three baby teeth left but Clarke thinks she’s finally beginning to understand her Mom a little better when she tells Clarke she’ll always be her baby. Even with an actual baby in the house, Andy never stopped being three-years-old to her. 

“Fine,” she says eventually, her frown still intact as she folds the cover over the iPad, telling Lexa ‘thank you Mom’ before slinking downstairs. 

Once she’s gone, Clarke fits her arms around Lexa’s neck, letting her hands wander over the hick material of her costume.

It’s a jumpsuit — complete with sponsor patches gravel burns — that Raven sourced from her friend who races stock cars and Lexa smells sharp because of it, like grease and car exhaust. Even though there's absolutely no skin on show, Clarke thinks it’s the sexiest visual she’s ever seen. 

Their costumes aren’t matching — they aren’t even close. Raven suggested Clarke be the pit crew to Lexa’s Nascar driver but they’re so worn into each other now that Clarke doesn’t think matching matters. They could be dressed as Morticia Adams and Miss America and it would still be clear they are a set. Besides, Clarke worked hard to get back into shape after she had the baby; she thinks she looks better now than she did before she got pregnant, so what if she wants to wear a midriff top and relive her high school years? 

She can see Lexa in every dip and curve of her body and the way her own fingers fit neatly between the vertebra of Lexa’s spine, and how, instead of being two separate people they come as a single entity now: more Clarke-and-Lexa than Clarke and Lexa. 

“Remind me to thank Raven later,” she grins, sifting her hair through Lexa’s dark ponytail where it’s looped through the back of her baseball cap. 

“Remind me to thank whoever suggested this,” Lexa replies, gesturing to the cheerleading uniform Clarke has on. The skirt is tight, with two slits up the side and the top — form-fitting with a scoop neckline and a racer back — ends at the bottom of her ribs, emblazoned across the front with a fake team name in red, felt font. 

“That would be me.” 

Lexa’s lips quiver; a smirk hides in the top corner like Wendy Darling’s kiss. 

Clarke tips her head in anticipation, fingers anchoring themselves in Lexa’s ponytail and — 

_“Katie’s here!” _

Groaning at the intrusion, she tips her head into Lexa’s chest. 

“Raincheck?” Lexa smiles, hands finding the bare strip of skin above the waistband of Clarke’s skirt and wiggling her eyebrows. 

(Suddenly, her late-night Etsy order is the best idea she’s ever had). 

* * *

When they descend from their Eden, it’s to a house in chaos. 

Clarke focuses on what she can do first: taking the candy bowl from where it sits on the bench by the door and greeting the gaggle of seven-year-olds on the doorstep, taking Fish by the collar back into the house when the dog gets under her feet.

Katie, her Mom and three other girls, all dressed as characters from _Grease_ with coiffed hair and pink, satin bomber jackets are standing by the gate — it’s sweet, Clarke thinks, that Andy is old enough now to coordinate costumes with her friends, even if it means their years of planning family costumes are over — and she waves at them to let them know Andy will be about in a minute. 

“Got your pillowcase?” she asks when the girl in question appears behind her. 

Andy brandishes her patterned pillowcase in her fist. 

“Be back by eight-thirty, OK?” 

“Mhm!” Andy nods vehemently. 

“OK,” Clarke relents, kneeling down. She can’t stall anymore, she has to come to terms with the fact that her little girl is growing up — it just sucks that her growing up has to include missing out on one of her favourite traditions. “Gimme a kiss.” 

Clarke watches Andy skip off once she complies, waiting until the blond has looped her arm through Katie’s with an infectious grin before turning away from the door. They’ve already organised for Katie’s Mom to send her any photos she takes tonight and both her and Lexa have the woman’s phone number from PTA meetings and carpool rosters. 

The rational part of her isn’t worried at all. 

“One down, two to go,” she says as she walks back into the kitchen. 

It’s warm and decorated, just like every other inch of the house, with cardboard bats Blu-Tacked to the walls, fake spider webs and black, white and orange bead garlands hung from the mirrors and paintings in the dining room. A tray of Rice-Krispy ghosts — a festive afternoon activity — sits abandoned on the stove-top and the kids’ dinner dishes are stacked in the sink. 

Lexa smiles from a stool by the kitchen counter, their five-year-old — petite, dark-haired and officially theirs as of two years ago when they signed the adoption certificate — in her lap as she fiddles with the strap of a black Mary Jane. 

In the living room, Octavia and Lincoln corral their own two kids without much help from either Raven — who is far too interested in Clarke and Lexa’s youngest — or Anya who watches Raven bounce the two-year-old on her hip with a sweet, fond look Clarke has only seen on her face once or twice. 

(Clarke thinks Anya has baby fever — not that she would ever admit it to Raven). 

“What d’you think, Cee?” Lexa asks, lifting Charlotte off of her lap. 

She picks the copy of _Madeline and the Cats of Rome_ up off the kitchen counter and flicks to a page of illustrations, holding it out beside Charlotte for comparison. 

“It’s beau-ti-ful,” Charlotte, sounding out each syllable as she twirls. Her dress — the product of Lexa’s handiwork — flares out at the waist above the tops of her white knee socks and Clarke melts, soothing a hand over the ribbons hanging from the brim of her straw hat. 

She remembers when Charlotte first came to them — how quiet and unsure she had been — and can hardly reconcile that girl to the one standing in front of her now. 

“Alright,” Octavia declares, hustling her three-year-old towards them. “Are we ready to go?” She winds her fingers through her son’s dark, spiral curls. 

Murmurs of assent go up around the room and Clarke sends Charlotte upstairs to get a pillowcase for Octavia’s daughter and herself — they swore off buckets last year after the flimsy plastic of Andy’s pumpkin split straight down the sides, resulting in lost candy and tears — and takes AJ from Raven, pressing her nose into the soft terry cloth of her two-year-old’s costume. 

They dressed her up properly this year as opposed to just novelty onesies. She hadn’t given them much in the way of what she wanted to be when they asked — ‘she’s two’ Lexa reasoned after an unsuccessful planning session, ‘I don’t know what we expected’ — but Clarke suggested Max from Where The Wild Things Are after her sixth re-read of the story and a last-minute dash to Jo-Ann’s Fabrics, the costume had come out better than she thought it would. 

She stands on the porch with them, little arms wrapped snugly around the plastic candy bowl as they watch Octavia, Raven, Lincoln, Anya and the kids disappear down the sidewalk towards the neighbours’ houses, Charlotte and Octavia's daughter Ella holding hands between them.

They’d take her trick or treating next year, they decided. At this point getting AJ to walk more than two aisles through the grocery store is a battle — she has both of them wrapped around her little finger as far as carrying her is concerned — so it would be pointless to take her out now. They have plenty of candy anyway, and no doubt Andy and Charlotte will come back with more than enough to share. 

(Candy tax is the best part of Halloween and being a parent and Clarke will go to the grave arguing her point). 

* * *

An hour and a half into handing out candy AJ falls asleep on Clarke. 

They pulled the folding deck chairs with their pinstripe canvas to match the outdoor tablecloth onto the front porch to sit on and Clarke reaches a leg out to tap Lexa with a sneakered foot, indicating to the sleeping two-year-old with a smile. 

It’s dark now; the Jack-O-Lantern cast soft, flickering shadows across the yard and across the street the Petersons’ windows are open so that the Halloween playlist blasting out of their living room can be heard by the whole street — even over the squeals of sugared-up children. Clarke thinks she’s heard the Kidz Bop rendition of Monster Mash more times in the last hour than she ever wanted to her in her life but AJ seemed to like it because her eyes started drooping as soon as it began playing 

(Clarke makes a mental note of it; filing the song away between Taylor Swift and Tchaikovsky on the list of things that send her youngest to sleep). 

“We got the easy one,” she whispers, reaching up to slide her pinky finger under AJ’s curled fist and watching her lashes flutter in retaliation — tiny, blond and perfect. She has Lexa’s pout; this gentle pucker of her lips as she sleeps that lodged itself between Clarke's ribs — right next to her heart — as soon as she saw it. The perfect combination of them, even if it was with the help of a donor. 

“Do you want me to put her to bed?” Lexa asks, shaking the candy bowl slightly. They’re still getting trick or treaters — it isn’t late enough for the crowds to start dwindling — but they’re mostly older kids now and they have enough candy to leave the bowl unsupervised. 

“Yeah,” Clarke nods, easing AJ off her chest and into Lexa’s arms when she stands up, limbs soft like a rag-doll as she settles against Lexa’s shoulder, her cardboard crown wilting. 

They put the bowl on the lawn chair and shut the door, leaving the porch light on and Clarke leans over the banister to kiss Lexa in parting on her way through to the kitchen to fetch the baby monitor from its cradle, flicking it on in time to hear AJ fussing. Lexa’s voice comes next, low and sweet as she coos and talks. 

Fifteen minutes later, she reappears downstairs triumphant: it’s the fastest AJ has gone down in three months. 

“What’s the time?” Clarke grins, stepping over to meet her, baby monitor in hand as she slides her arms around Lexa’s neck. 

“Eight-oh-six,” Lexa whispers, checking the kitchen clock over her shoulder. 

“We have twenty minutes,” Clarke leans in gleefully, suddenly frenzied and desperate in the way she’s kissing. 

Lexa tastes like Sour Lifesavers and Reese’s Pieces when she stops long enough to consider, her cheeks are flushed Clarke can think of a million different reasons why Halloween is the best holiday — hello sexy costumes and the kids crashing shortly after their sugar highs — but at the moment, nothing can top the taste of Lexa and the feel of her beneath Clarke’s fingers. It’s addictive. 

“I’ve always wanted to date a cheerleader,” Lexa whispers, thready and out of breath as she plucks at the ribbons in Clarke’s hair — red and navy to match her outfit — until the knot gives. When it does her fingers find Clarke’s loosened ponytail. 

“If you’re lucky we can have our own half-time show,” Clarke hums, working her fingers under the Velcro collar of Lexa’s jumpsuit, pulling until it gives way with a tear and her neck is visible. 

The back towards the staircase — the blinds are open in the living room and the kitchen and Clarke isn’t about to give any nosey teenagers a peep show — an intricate dance, matching each other's movements tit-for-tat until the edge of the banister digs until Clarke’s back and she hisses into Lexa’s mouth. 

“Sorry,” Lexa winces. 

Clarke shakes her head. “No time,” she mumbles, cold fingers finding Lexa’s jaw and directing her gaze away from the bruise forming above the waistband of her skirt as they stumble up the staircase, Lexa’s jumpsuit hanging open at the neck until — 

“Mommies I go _ three _ full-sized Snickers'!” 

The crack of the door is like a gunshot that well and truly kills the mood and Clarke whines. 

“Come _ on!” _

**Author's Note:**

> just a quick round up: Clarke and Lexa have three girls, Andy (9), Charlotte (5), and AJ (2), Octavia and Lincoln also have two kids Ella (6) and Zack (3), and Raven and Anya are together. this will be explained through the last few chapters of it rained in seattle, some one-shots and a sequel but i couldn't resist writing this now because domestic clexa owns me
> 
> come talk to me up on tumblr ([@clarketomylexa](https://clarketomylexa.tumblr.com/)) if you want otherwise thanks for reading and i'll get back to the main story now


End file.
